Tag: adam

Under the guise of night I crept
into your bed and left handfuls
of the only flower I ever grew.
And I was night.
I have ever been night
slightly cracked at the edges. I pushed
you to the limits of reason
and it was purple and dusk there.

Remember our trip to Callisto
and the black water lapped silt.
Your vanishing hand on iron rails, the ivy
choking and I never loved my affairs.
Later I picked every last jasmine from the beach
despite the lights,
the pinpricks from our Lord Sun, the specks of light
beneath each petal dying flat—
puffs of ash.

You never touched me again.

It was your last chance to sing over this kind of death,

your last chance for when the world awakened again,
ravens to Earth.
Ravens under your nails and in our bed.
Spades of ravens.
The glass in which the galaxy reflects itself and you never knew.
Silhouette of your face, you slept
and I raised an army.